


Through Eyes of Gold

by solarpillar (solarwind)



Series: Triptych [1]
Category: Pokemon, Pokemon Special
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarwind/pseuds/solarpillar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate universe where Team Rocket is much more competent and took over most of the known world. </p>
<p>Through eyes of Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it was raining grey and you tinted it red

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to littlelinor for beta!

The rain blurred the world and greyed out the colours. The city rotted under the pitch black sky, all cars and buses crawled on drowned roads like dying animals. Sewers, overflown, regurgitated what the city had fed them over the day. Men and women wadded in ankle-high water to reach home, and the abandoned cars, engines off, clogged the pathways like giant metal carcasses.

It was only a small flood, really. The city had seen worse.

You waxed those awkward dark purple lines that might or might not be plagiarized as you walked home, trying to not slip and fall into the foul water that soaked your legs to the bones. You held your raincoat over your head and the heavy rain hammered your coat to your body like a second skin. A second, ice-cold skin. You could feel the warmth leave you, your teeth started to rattle and you quickened your pace to return home and bury yourself in dry blankets, drink some hot cocoa and take a hot-water shower. You tried really hard. You were almost running, if not because running at full speed would kick water up to your face and you were afraid you'd swallow one of those nasty things that should have stayed in the sewers.

And the fact that you were lost.

You couldn't tell the directions if everything was a blur. You were but ten, and all the road signs were too tall for you to be seen in this rain. Out of rural habits, you lifted your head for stars and immediately you regretted your decision and water beat down your face like a massive slap. You had water in your eyes, noses, mouth and even ears, acidic city rain that tasted sour and bitter like your mood. Your hair was wet and dripping, you cursed and mumbled some words you learned from passerby sailors and sat down on a nearby bench, blessing the fact that cheap wooden benches could not get wetter from rains.

You rested, freezing, on a bench in a world of grey. You saw nothing but patches of dark and lights, faraway places and passing cars, empty bureaus and well-lit homes. You were afraid to stop a car and ask for direction because they might not see you and ran you over. You were afraid to knock a random door because you know that for every hundred family there is one Rocket, and you do not want to be kidnapped and turned into child soldier. You could not find a passerby to grab and plead for help because it was past curfew and all sane and respectful people were already home, drinking hot beverage behind double-locked doors.

Suddenly, you saw a blur of red.

The blur of red belonged to a person clad in grey. You then saw another blur of red, belong to a separate entity, much smaller than the previous, also grey-bodied, running by the first's side. And faster, too. You noticed blurs of black chasing them. Catching up to them. They were hostile. You could tell. Movement of hunters.

The person with red, possibly a red bandana, tried to turn at an intersection. No luck. More black blurs showed up from that direction. And behind them.

The reds were surrounded.

You understood that the black blurs could be none other than Rockets. You also understood that the reds must be their enemies, hunted to be killed. You wanted to help them, but you were too scared and frozen to move. Instead, you sat on your bench, fingers between teeth to prevent them from colliding and thus give your position, and stayed there immobile. And watched.

You did not expect what you then witnessed.

The black blurs turned red.

No, not like that.

Flashes of white hit them and red came out of the black. They were bleeding. Massively. Fatally. They could barely get close to the small blurs of red-sporting greys. All the red never accumulated, but dissolved into the overflow and carried away, barely noticeable when they reached your feet. You could not even smell the blood, only rain and the sewers, and maybe your own body's scent. You didn't care. You stared at the red, tuned by the weather to a colour like rust mixed with dust, and you thought you came to a certain illumination.

When you looked up again, all the black were no longer moving. No more red came out of them. Among them, like a candle light, was a person about your size, slowing walking this way.

You noticed that it was a kid.

You noticed that it had hair red like blood and long like mane.

You noticed that it was beautiful. Majestic. Godly.

It stopped in front of you. You saw the face of the saddest angel ever sung. Its eyes contained nothing but murder, and you were not afraid. Strange, because you were afraid of Rockets. This, this creature could kill you there and you would sing an hallelujah.

And you wanted to close your fingers around its throat, killing it as it killed you. You wanted to see blood coming from its mouth. You wanted to smear your blood against its.

Your train of thoughts came to a stop when your realised that its face had came closer to yours. The train became a wreck when you estimated the distance to be a mere inch. The same train then exploded when you felt a cold, sharp object pressed against your neck.

You calmed down when the creature's eyes turned softer. A form of pity diluted the murder in its eyes.

The creature's eyes were gray like a silver knife. You had never seen a human with eyes so pale.

You believed yourself safe when the person-creature-angel walked away with the little grey-and-red, until the rain swallowed them, hid them like a curtain closed.

Your instinct took over and you ran, ran, ran. Before you realised you were already home, washing yourself with water that burnt your skin.

 

 

Seven years later, you still remember that day.

Your name is Hiroki Goldsmith and you are an aspiring consulting detective. You work in Pearl City, a cashier by day, a bartender by night and a detective on call. You are still a rookie, but you have a patron in Kai "Green" Oak and you think you will be fine.

You wonder if you chose this life to be able to meet the angel with silver eyes and red mane again. You ask yourself why. You remember the intent to kill that was seemly passed onto you from that event, as if a baptism.

You know that you are ready to kill. For what, you are still unsure.

Your cellphone rings. Green. Another murder. It's still not your turn to kill.

You answer the phone. An autopsy to watch. 10:34. You can make it.

You close the door and open your heart. You breathe the putrid city air and force yourself to believe that it's going to be another bright day. You find a taxi and you inhale the smell of cigarettes and alcohols and leftover food crumbs, of countless humans that occupied this same small space before you, and you wait.

You wait. For the arrival.


	2. the silver of your eyes washes away my mind

"Bonjour, Gold!" Green yells. "You are going to love this one. It's an artist type again."

The smell of decomposition and formaldehyde makes you nauseous. You are fine with death and killing, but dissembling a dead body for a purpose other than eating is revolting. You remember the days of dissections and autopsies labs, bad taste forming in your mouth.

This body is that of a young human male... no, three males reassembled to make one. Their ages are 23, 28, 38, respectively. Blood was drained completely dry, save for few locations. Their flesh, bones and organs were cut into rectangular blocks of various seizes. In each block was buried a single yellow ring. The sternum, however, had a silver key embedded within instead. The rings are 24k gold. No fingerprints. Each bears an inscription on the inner side. Pure letters, no symbols or numbers. Either codes or gibberish. You also take notice that the youngest male's eyes are of a familiar shade of silver, and ask for clarification.

"Funny... but their irises have been painted." The forensic expert said.

The killer had apparently cut open the victims' eyes, dyed the irises and glued them back. You look at Green for emotional support. He sticks out his tongue, nonchalant with only a hint of disgust. You frown harder and silently ask yourself if it's because he's not-so-secretly a sociopath or just plain used to them. You consider sending his name to Fear Factor. You take note of every detail you judge important, such as what is written on each ring, the shape of the key and, of course, the irises. One of youngest victim's eyes is painted silver and in the left socket, the middle aged one eye's is blue and in the right socket, and the oldest's is impossible to tell because a man can only have two eyes and both places are taken.

"Not so fast. Here's the nasty part." Green announces, signalling the forensics.

The third victim's eye is inside one of the heart chambers.

"Very poetic and metaphoric, isn't it?" Green grins, showing teeth.

You find it blasphemous and want to kill the killer yourself.

You fake-kiss Green on the mouth on your way out and he agrees to drive you home. You ponder kissing him for real one day and see what he will do then. You ask him how's his Autistic friend doing? He threatens to kill you if you keeping call his friend like that, and for the last time, the name's Red to match his Green and they are like life partners and insulting one is gravely insulting the other. You listen to him going on and on about his childhood-friend-turned-consort and feel incomplete. You look at his fingers and see not one, but three rings, one from each marriage. One of them was when he married himself. It was weird even by Green's standard. It helps his reputation that he was drunk and drugged, not to mention doing it on an outrageous dare. You know that your ego is too small to be your own lover and feel even more alone and incomplete. You think of silver irises, of the murderous glare and cold sharp knife. You need a drink. But no, you're not going to a bar. Green drops you home and you give him a friendly middle finger. He laughs and gives you two. You watch him disappear in the traffic and enter home. Time for a beer. You bought two dozens of them when they were on sale last week and there should be at least a can left...

You don't need to be a detective to realise that someone broke in.

Your apartment is not in a mess. Everything that was moved were placed to approximately the same place as before, but in such a gross way that you suspect yourself OCD. For one, there are dragging marks on the already out-of-shape wooden floor. Deep, circular, drag marks of furniture legs on cheap old flooring. Did you mention that you rented this apartment partly because you loved the old flooring? You do now. You loved the wooden flooring and someone defaced it by dragging the cheap furniture over them.

You snap out of your hateful meditation when a weight dropped on your back and pressed its honed claws to your throat. Oops.

"Hey. Did you cook this yourself? It's quite delicious."

Those silver eyes. Familiar. The same, murderous, silver eyes, now with a hint of arrogance.

"Hey to you too, beautiful." You reply. "Did you break in for money or in search of a trophy wife here? I'm available, in case you're wondering."

You both laugh.

"You are a handful, aren't you? Anyway, sorry for eating your food and drinking your beer-"

"Please. Quit it."

"...you sure?"

You almost snap. "You broke in my house, you destroyed my beautiful flooring, ate my food, drank my beer, probably took a shower in my bathroom, I know this because you smell like my shampoo and mine is a special mix that only I use, and possibly gave your cat-"

"A Weavile. Technically, it's more weasel than cat."

"Fine, gave your Weavile here a bath with my shampoo, dried it-"

"Him. He's a male."

"Dried your boy Weavile's fur and ordered it to land on my back and hold me hostage." You take a deep breath. "And you're even wearing my clothes, probably because you only have one set of them."

"That's accurate enough."

You sigh. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"Information. You saw Tri's victims today. You're an attentive detective, so you must have the inscriptions noted. Give them to me. I'll crack the code for you, you'll cook diner for me while I do so and I'll tell you everything I know over a candlelight hate-date and you'll keep providing information for me until either I drop or I slit your throat."

"Good Arceus, you sound like if you lived with Green. What's with all the sarcasm?"

"I did in fact live with Green at one point. So, will you please?"

"Yes, if you use more punctuation in your sentences."

"Touché. I will."

"Deal." You groan.

You hand them your notebook and head to the kitchen. To your dismay, you cook a non-lethal, heavenly delicious meal for him without sneaking in any drugs. Then again, you don't have drugs at home, not even sleeping pills or pain killers.

"Done yet?" You ask as you serve.

You notice that the person has Adam's apple. So he's a pretty boy. Almost as pretty as Green's current consort. Both malnourished beauties with knives in their pockets and murder in their eyes.

He shakes his head, sets down the pen and papers and joins at the table. He prefers spoon, fork and knife over chopsticks. He doesn't smile or laugh much, and when he does it's often an arrogant smirk or bark, like an unfriendly animal. It is such a stark contrast to his angel-like exterior, his expressions are more of a sexy devil from a video game for teenager boys than the surreal, marble-like angel of death in your memory.

"So, why are you trusting a stranger like this? Aren't you afraid that I drug the food or something?"

He laughs at this, his teeth bared. "Stranger? You? Heck, no, you are no stranger to me; I have lived in your house in secret for months now. I just haven't showed up until today."

That jerkass. No wonder your beer kept disappearing.

Then you remember the stack of items you keep under your bed. And what you do at night when you're lonely. Shit.

"Before you think of me as a voyeur," he says, seeing your face change colour, "I don't stay at night. I visit during the day to take naps on your bed or futon, but at night I have my own business to attend to. I haven't seen you doing anything that a lonely, hormone-ridden healthy young male is likely to do at night."

You are too embarrassed to breathe in relief.

"But your collection of dubious nature is very interesting. The ones under the bed, I mean."

You want to dig a hole with the chopsticks you're holding, but enough damage to flooring today. You do manage to scrap a layer of oil and other residues off your dining table, however, which just makes you even more embarrassed.

"Really? Gay bondage on ice with the ropes on fire? And use a photo of Green licking a Starmie as bookmark? I hope it was only for some thesis on deviant sexual attractions and not personal enjoyment."

You debate between lying and telling the truth. Instead, you only nod.

"Yes, I'd answer 'yes' if I were you too. Thanks for the meal. I'm going back to decoding."

"Wait."

"What is it?"

You dig your nails inside your palm to keep calm. "You have observed me for months..."

"Yes...?"

"So you should know where I keep my stuff."

"Yes."

"Then why in the world did you destroy my beautiful flooring?"


	3. your nail scratches my ears open and I hear

You lie on the couch, the Weavile's claw still on your throat. You listen to the mysterious boy's report and you try to not fall asleep. You don't like this. Listening is boring, especially if the speech is long and monotone. He doesn't seem to be dragging it intentionally like some professors, but it's still as sleep-inducing as it can be.  
  
His voice, though of a good timbre and backed by strong lungs, is hoarse. Infection? Maybe. Smoking? No smell of it. Some sadist messed with it? No idea.  
  
You let your arm stretch and hand fall on his arm. More slender than you thought. You ignore the claw digging into your skin as warning and you look into his eyes, which are soon full of outrage and rage.  
  
It's the kind of face smug wealthy people have when a person of considerably lower rank touch them. Strange. Isn't this boy a fugitive? How did he get a spoiled rich person habit?  
  
"Yo. Whatsyourname, I'm going to fall asleep if you keep going like this." You say to him, unflinching.  
  
You don't even seem to care about your bleeding neck. It works. His gaze softens.  
  
And your right ear feels a cold, sharp pain. You don't need to look to know the extend of the wound. You feel the blood drip down and ruin your shirt, pants, couch and your regrettable flooring. The blood is going to sink into the fibres via the drag lines and no amount of polishing is going to clean that out.  
  
"The name's Silver, if you must know. And you need to open your ear." He says, closing his notebook.  
  
"Thanks for opening it for me then, Silver." You gesture the cut-open ear. "But I'm not an ordinary person. I do not like this passive-aggressive game. Either we throw all our cards on the table in the raddest game ever, or we don't do it at all. Kill me right here if you don't want to play. Or if you're a sadist, torture me a little more before you kill, if that suits you. Skin me alive, cut me to pieces, set me on fire, do experiments on me in a lab, heck, do your worse if you want."  
  
He visibly snaps. "Who the fuck you do think I am? Executive Proton? One of those Rocket scums, who know nothing but bullying other weaklings in order to feel superior?"  
  
"Well, if you are not, then why are you-"  
  
"Shut up! You know nothing! Nothing about Rockets! You have only seen them from afar, behind those dead bodies, photos, videos and written reports. You may have fought some, but those were mere grunts, disposable satellites of the organisation. You have not seen the heart of Team Rocket. 'Team'? That makes me laugh. More like a bunch of plotting, manipulative bastards standing in a circle stabbing each others' back. None of them have any true power. They only stand because they all hate each other equally and do not which one to stab first. They are all weak. Hiding behind numbers. 'Don't stab me, stab the others first.' Weaklings. Wealkings' mentality. Like a group of lame fish, the like of Magikarp. All hope to evolve, yet most only know Splash and therefore cannot defeat enough opponents to gain experience and evolve. I'm not going to be like them. I am not like them. I don't even need to evolve into a Gyarados because I'm never a Magikarp to start with. I'm something greater. And I will be stronger. I'm going to rule the world and make those stupid megalomaniac Rockets into people jam and feed them to Gyarados in Lake Rage."  
  
It is impressive to see such a cold beauty burst into Internet imageboard grade teenage rage like this. You like how his vampiric white skin turns pink and then red, like a bashful child.  
  
"And why are you looking at me like as if I'm cute?"  
  
Well. He is. Sort of. Like how Gengar are cute. Or Lugia. Or some fluffy angry feline. You are not sure.  
  
"I'm not cute! I'm strong! And I'm a killer! A murderer! You have no idea how much blood I have on my-"  
  
Slam. You took the opportunity to catch the distracted Weavile by its neck and slammed its head hard on the coffee table.  
  
"You're not the only one who grew up in the streets, brat." You say, calm and casual.  
  
He wants to grab a knife, but he is not wearing his own outfit now and forgot to bring the knife over.   
  
"I'll tell you what you are." You grin, still holding down the Weavile by the back of its neck. "You're a kid. And an amateur. You try to be strong, and you tell yourself that you are strong, and indeed you are strong, but you know better than anyone that you are still not strong enough. Far from enough. This is why you need all the act. You pretend to be stronger than you really are so your enemies won't mess with you. I've seen people like you. You eventually believe your disguise and grow overconfident."  
  
He laughs. A proper villain's laugh. It is the kind of laughing where the person still keeps their guards on and without breathing too hard, but the laughter still holds power. It is the kind of barren laughter that does not infect. It is the kind of laugh that is not melodramatic or showy, but attracts attention nonetheless. Like a king's murmur in a court.  
  
"You think so?" He asks.  
  
You nod. But you are not sure anymore. This kid's still got some trump cards hidden in his sleeves.  
  
"If I were younger, I'd laugh it off. Scream over your voices, kick up sand and throw a tantrum. But you are right. Pride is my deadly sin. I got that from my biological parents, I suppose.  
  
"But let me tell you about you. You are a gambler. To you, life is a game, a gamble. You know risks and you willingly take them. You do whatever you can to win them. When you were ten you were kicked out of an arcade for cheating. You were lucky that the owner was kind and didn't chop your fingers off. They do that to children too, I've seen them do that. Even for a damned arcade. When you were twelve you tried to stop a Rocket attack and it cost your Quilava. When you were sixteen you tried to make money faster by cheating at a Casino and you only escaped by the skin of your teeth, and your old house was destroyed as retaliation. Yet no matter how many times you lose, you never give up and keep on gambling.  
  
"Even now, you are gambling on the possibility that my only weapons are my Weavile and my knife."  
  
You snort. "I have refined my gambling skills, if you haven't noticed. As of now, I won't gamble if I am not certain that I can win. You rely on too much information from the past and not enough on what is happening right now, in front of you."  
  
"For someone who doesn't like long talks, you sure can talk." He says, tilting his head, eyebrows and corners of mouth rising with mockery.  
  
You snap. "Changing subjects is a sign of weakness, you s-"  
  
You don't have a chance to finish your sentence. The boy is fast. He leaped over the coffee table in a speed far greater than what you have expected and closed his fingers around your neck. You try to throw him over the couch, but it doesn't work because unlike in movies, your living room is too small to have a couch in the middle of the room and instead of empty space there's a wall behind it. You knocked Silver's head against the wall instead, which only infuriated him further. Is his head made of steel?  
  
But you know that you will win. You knee him in the lower abdomen, careful to avoid the crotch region in case that you want to sleep with him later. You shove your head against his throat and pull down his arms so you suffocate him. You push him on the coffee table, careful to not impale him on his own Weavile's claws; stabbing an enemy with his own weapon is never nice.  
  
He knees you in the groin without hesitating. Bastard.  
  
It didn't hurt that much, possibly because the angle was too awkward to let him put in all his strength. You still hold it against him because he certainly meant it.  
  
The Weavile is already up and waiting for command. Shit.  
  
"Icy Wind!"  
  
You are not going to let that happen. You rapidly roll over, keeping Silver close to you so Weavile will hesitate, fearing to harm his human. This is where you deliver a quick, spinning sucker kick to its face.  
  
Or what you wanted to do. What you get instead is Silver stopping your leg with his own, slip, no,  _slither_  away from your grip and lock you in some wrestling move that you fail to identity.  
  
This time, Weavile is going to tear your throat right out.

 

 

Unable to move your limbs, you give the Weavile the scariest face you can manage. With bared teeth and all. As it flinches from the sight, you roar as loud as you can, with all the anger you have in you. It is the kind of roar powerful Houndour and Houndoom give out to intruders. Had the Weavile being wild, it would certainly run away. But this is a trained Weavile, so it merely takes a few steps back and charges forward again.  
  
"Stop! Weavile!"  
  
He actually doesn't want you to die? You hope it's not because he wants to castrate you first.  
  
The Weavile stops on command. A very well trained Weavile.  
  
"Green won't be happy if he dies here." He explains to Weavile.  
  
The sharp claw Pokémon nods and adapts a stand-by stance.  
  
"Fine. You really are not bad." He releases you.  
  
"What the hell is going on?" You ask, rubbing your shoulders. Your ear wound has clotted already.  
  
"I should introduce myself properly. I am Silver Giovanni Viridian, the traitor prince of Team Rocket, temporary ally to Green." He extends a hand. "Nice to meet you, Gold of New Bark Town, Green's protegé."  
  
You frown. You shake his hand anyway. "Traitor prince? Ally to Green? What the heck?"  
  
"Green is not a honest cop, and I am not a honest citizen." He leads closer. "We are both Green's pawn for his own little agenda, in case you have not noticed. And I'm also a double agent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I said that this is based on Pokemon Special, Silver here learned about his biological parents way sooner than in Special, and was actively hunted down by Rockets with more competence, and has less contact with Blue, so he's kind of unstable and sadistic compared to the calm and confident ice prince that we have in canon.


	4. I will cross a thousand bridges to meet with you again

You have just done explaining the loud noises in your apartment to your neighbours, which took nearly an hour. This is why you prefer a house. Alas, you cannot afford one.  
  
You told your neighbours that your old boyfriend came over, that you two had a friendly fight and are now good again. They asked you for clarification on which definition of 'old' you are using here. After all, paedophilia and ephebophilia are a huge concern. You assured them that he's about your age and you meant 'old' as in 'ex-' and 'since a long time'.  
  
Smart enough, Silver came to help. In a different face. Short black hair, yellow round face, brown eyes, flat nose, slightly plump physique and Kanto rural accent.  
  
"So the noises were...?" They asked.  
  
He explained that you two were fighting with Pokémon. He took out two Poké Balls and showed them the Weavile and the Houndoom inside. Convincing enough.  
  
After they left, Silver pulls Ditto off his face. You like his white skin, long red hair, perfect face and proud nose, and his arrogant city accent with a hint of Italian. And those silver eyes. Mesmerising.  
  
You no longer lust after him. And you no longer want to kill him. You were attracted to a facade of his, but now he is there before you, honest and majestic. Just like what you saw seven years ago, in the rain, next to a pile of dead bodies. The angel is back in his ethereal shell.  
  
Silver the Killer. Silver the Seducer. Silver the Unskilled. They are not him.  
  
Silver is this. Silver.  
  
Silver is a professional. But why a criminal? He still doesn't look like the type to play chess with human lives and minds.  
  
"You can stop reading me. I am much simpler than you believe."  
  
"You're a loner type." You say.  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"But not a real loner. More like Red." You continue.  
  
He looks your way at the mention of Red.  
  
You start doing your job. "You can love. You do love. But you don't know how to love. You think hiding in a cave and train yourself is the best way to secure a relationship. You believe in investing in loneliness to buy happiness. You think that once you're strong and on the top of the world, people will come to you. That you can save them.  
  
"But you are wrong. And not only you are wrong, those weren't your ideas in the first place. Someone planted those ideas in you. Someone, intentional or not, made you think that power is the magical solution.  
  
"There was a time limit on how fast you should become strong enough. You failed it. Now you've lost everything that mattered to you. Except maybe your Pokémon."  
  
"And the identities of players involved?" He asks.  
  
"I have no idea." You admit.   
  
He stands up to leave.  
  
"Hey." You stop him. "Tell one thing to me. Where do you sleep, anyway? I know that you didn't sleep on my bed like you claimed to. This is the first time you are in my house, isn't it? My apartment has always smelled like myself, your smell didn't rub in until today."  
  
He stops in his track.  
  
"Do you want to stay?" You ask, wistful. You know that he won't. You had to offer, though.  
  
He takes out a Poké Ball and simply teleports away.  
  
You look at the time. You verify your notes. You reach out for your phone and dial the number to Green's residence, hoping that Green is sticking to his usual schedule.  
  
If all goes right, Green should be absent and it will be Red who answers the phone.

 

".................................."  
  
Someone picked up the phone, but did not talk. You can hear regular breathing on the other side. You hope this is indeed Red and not because you accidentally dialed the number to some pervert.  
  
"Red?" You ask.  
  
"...............................yes."  
  
It is him.  
  
"Red? Can you tell me about Silver? And Green's shared history with him? Anything you believe to be related, actually."  
  
"...............................Espeon."  
  
You don't have the time to prepare your mind for the impact. Psychic waves crossed optic fibres and went directly in your head, planting years of memories into your brain. You drop the phone from the shock, staggering and struggling to find a wall to lean against.  
  
Sliding down to sit, you try to keep your mind in one piece. You don't need to worry about talking to Red right now because you can hear from the phone tone that he already hung up.  
  
After a while, you stand up and pack up your things. You leave few things that you cannot carry, write a note of apology to the landlord, queue up two calls to your full-time works' boss and email them your resignation letters.  
  
You lock the door behind you and throw the keys inside via the window. You remember to close the window from the outside.  
  
You text Green one last time, then remove the SIM card from your phone and throw it out. You look at the wallpaper of your phone. You don't want to throw that away yet. You put it back into your pocket and carry on.  
  
You don't take a taxi because you want to save money. You don't have a bicycle. You do have your old skateboard, so you ride it to the nearest bank and take out a reasonable among of money. Not too much, and certainly not all of it, for the police will be alerted if you do so.  
  
You go to an alley and scan the homeless. You recognize few force-for-hire, and you hire two to burgle your own apartment and make it look like a kidnapping and murder. You give them a pint of your own blood to make it look more real. You tell them that the story is that they killed you and dumped your body in the sea, if anyone asks. You instruct them to take few clothes and boots you left behind, and you tell in which closet, there is only one closet anyway, and burn them so when the search team hits the beach they'll find something.  
  
You watch them wear a Ditto each and leave for your old apartment. You take a direction perpendicular to them.  
  
The Abalone Bridge.  
  
The biggest bridge connecting the Pearl City to the mainland.  
  
If you need to exit stage, why not do it in a way that pleases you? You won't abscond like a thief. You will march out like a lord. You are, after all, Gold of New Bark. The boy whose life was like a movie, started out in a mansion with golden spoon in the mouth and eventually landed in a dingy little apartment working as other people's dog. Enough of that life.  
  
If you are going to live like a dog for the rest of your life, you are going to be the top dog and you are going to find yourself a suitable master.  
  
When you pass the booth, you make sure to smile differently in front of the officers and security cameras. You are not the goofy, outspoken, megalomaniac Gold who smiles with all the teeth and flirt with all the pretties. You are dignified, almost cold, polite and reserved. When you brush your hair with your hand, you make sure to do it in such way that you appear to be used to long hair, but it is recently cut short and you have not shaken off the habit yet, without exaggerating the motion. You show them your permits and explain that you're off the city for business, part of your job as a rookie detective.  
  
They wish you good luck and let you pass. You smile back and even give a friendly wave as you walk towards the other side.  
  
You can only imagine Green's reaction when he hears the story of your leave from them.  
  
You leave Pearl City, the artificial island and metropolis, one of few cities still ruled by the government. Though, to be exact, it is ruled by the local police force. One of its leaders is none other than Green. He has the qualification. Ex-Champion and all.  
  
You inhale the salty sea air and enjoy the faint shaking of the bridge from all the passing vehicles. A huge metal bridge, all cement and steel. Like the rotten remain of a giant creature, holding barely in the waves and winds.  
  
Sitting in the middle of the bridge, you enjoy the sunrise. You love how the moon and the sun are both up on the sky in the morning, and how so many stars otherwise invisible are visible at this moment. You eat your breakfast with the sky as companion and cement platform as home.  
  
You've missed this feeling. The life of drifting around, guided only by fate and desire.  
  
You reach for your belt. Empty.  
  
You miss Exbo, your beloved Quilava.

 

Somewhere in Pearl City, a blast of fire shoots skywards. You can see it from here and you know it's Arcanine fire. You curse under your breath, pack up your unfinished meal and run. You feel silly because,  _Arcanine_. Especially Green's Arcanine.  
  
You consider jumping into water to escape, but it's way too high up here and you'll definitely either die or break most bones of your body when you hit the water surface. And then drown if you're not dead. Or eaten by wild Tentacruel or Gyarados.  
  
You wish you had a water Pokémon. You wish you had a Pokémon at all.  
  
So you take out your skateboard, pray to Arceus for safety and grind down the remaining distance of the bridge.  
  
It's not your smartest idea. At all.  
  
You accelerate too fast to be safe. You can't even jump away with that kind of inertia.  
  
You can see the end of the bridge already. It's a fucking pole. You don't even have the time to brace for impact before...  
  
You don't die. A force field slows you down and you hit the support pillar with a light thud. When you fall, a hand catches you and lead you to safety.  
  
The skin of your saviour is a familiar porcelain white.  
  
But the hand is old and strong. An adult.  
  
You look up. You don't recognize the face, but you feel like if you have seen it before.  
  
Once he made sure that no other civilian is around, he removes a Ditto from his face and hands.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking hell of thousand Houndoom and bloody lotus.  
  
Worse, you realise that people were hiding in the scenery around you too. Most of them strangers, but few are familiar and they spell bad news. All of them.  
  
"Hello again, Gold boy." Petrel smiles. "I hope you are not holding a grudge against us for what happened to your fire weasel? We are actually pretty nice, if you get to know us. Especial me. I'm a nice guy."


End file.
